


You Just Have to Stand

by twixtnightandmorn



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twixtnightandmorn/pseuds/twixtnightandmorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I never wanted to be a mage, never wanted the curse that infects my blood without any known cure but the living death known as tranquility." F!Hawke/Anders, multiple viewpoints. Rated for later chapters and adult themes, including rape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface: My Stand

_Some may call it a curse  
_ _A life like mine  
_ _But others, a blessing  
_ _It's certainly a lonely life  
_ _But a fulfilling one and the best  
_ _It's my cross to bear  
_ _And I'll bear it gladly  
_ _Someone has to take a stand against evil  
_ _Why should it not be me?_

* * *

I'm going to die; I know it, the many pairs of ice-cold eyes looking back at me through the slits within their helmets know it, too. Strange, how it has come to this, how after all my mother and father did to make sure neither my sister or I ended up in the hands the Chantry, this is where my life will end, at the tip of a Templar's sword, slain under the Right of Annulment during the cleansing of a Circle the both had fought so hard to escape. An apostate's blood runs just as red, so that will make no difference, my magic is just as much an accident of birth, a curse of the Maker the same as any other poor soul locked in the dismal prison knows as the Gallows. Really, it wouldn't be so bad to die, to finally escape from the prison that has been my life, to get a chance to finally be myself in the hereafter, not just whatever title has been thrown on me for the moment. Daughter, sister, niece, Red Iron, apostate bitch, my lady, Serah, my friend, _lethallan_ , beloved, kadan, Champion… I have been all of these; "proud scion of the House of Amell", "Lady Hawke", "she who should be viscount", a million other titles have been tossed my way these last few years. Here, in the moment of death, I can finally be myself, finally admit to all of Thedas who and what I am. No more running, no more hiding, no more masks. Only one person ever knew all of me, and now…  _oh, Anders, what have you done? Oh, my love, how much easier it would have been for you to drive a knife straight into my heart; it couldn't have hurt any more than this._

Screams, explosions, and the ringing of steel against stone echo in the distance as I straighten proudly to look at my executioners. Who knows what they see: a young woman, throwing her future away in a last stand to protect those who deserve no protection; an evil temptress, taunting them into some wild charge; the great Champion of Kirkwall, brainwashed by her own people, poisoned with blood magic by her own lover to do his bidding, the only solution a death of mercy? Can they even understand the truth, that only now I understand who I am completely, that for all the times in my life that I wished I wasn't a mage, if only to protect my family or to be good enough for someone else, this is the first time that I completely accept it? Even in a way this is not unexpected; my entire life was spent living for others, should it be so surprising I would die in another's place as well?  _If only you weren't coming with me into the Void…_

"Champion," one of the Templars begins.

"No," I reply, raising my staff and gathering the magic inside me to form lightening along its length. "The Champion is gone. I am only an apostate named Ebony Hawke, and I do believe you wish to kill me…"

* * *

_Remember who you are  
_ _What you stand for  
_ _And there will always be a way._

A/N: Lyrics at top of page from "Why Not Me?" and bottom of page from "Deceiver of Fools", both by Within Temptation. I do not own the lyrics or any of the characters from Dragon Age 2 that were created by BioWare. Wish I did though, being sick and being broke at the same time is not fun.


	2. Chapter One: A Way In For a Way Out

_Though we share this humble path, alone  
_ _How fragile is the heart  
_ _Oh give these clay feet wings to fly  
_ _To touch the face of the stars_

* * *

Carver and I decided our strategy to try and get this job yesterday; we need it more than we've needed anything in our lives, or at least I do, and he's being brotherly enough to pretend that means he needs it too. Or he's paranoid enough to think that being related to three apostates, albeit two of them no more than ashes anymore, is enough to land him in the Gallows beside me. So he's doing his best to look like the tower of muscles and brute force, perfect for a bodyguard, and I'm mentally begging him to remember some of the lessons in diplomacy Mother and I have tried to teach him over the years. It's not Carver's fault that he has a temper, or that the dwarf can't seem to do anything but step on it. Maker forbid that he lose said temper and beat our last hope senseless, though.

"Andraste's tits, human! You know how many people want to hire on to this expedition?" Bartrand Tethras has a voice that makes me want to spit sparks, and I'm the calm one in the family, but then again it just might be desperation.

"Look, we know you're going into the Deep Roads." Blunt and inelegant, that's Carver all the way through; I can't understand why he was named for the action of a knife, because a blade moves with finesse, leaving neat, straight wounds. My brother is more of a wallop mallet, crushing everything in his path, with me following along behind in life trying to fit the shards back together. Many times it just proves too much even for all the healing skills our father taught me. "You'll need to hire the best and we're…"

"No! You're too late! Already done!" The dwarven merchant starts to turn away but Carver hold him back with a strong hand, though not so strong as to be perceived as a threat. We don't need the guards on us after all.

"The money from this trip could fix everything! You need us. We've fought darkspawn!"

"Look, precious," the sneer sends a flush of red up Carver's tan cheek, muscles bunching in his jaw as he grits his teeth in anger. Quickly, I lay my hand on the top of my brother's arm.  _Don't lose your temper, please. For Mother's sake if nothing else._  "I don't care if you tore the horns off an ogre with your bare hands."

My touch is shaken off, two angry sapphire eyes glaring down into my own amethyst gaze. For a moment I think, I  _hope_ , the anger will be directed at someone other than me just this once, a favor from one sibling to another, but his words crush that emotion before it can even properly bloom. "You make him understand! We're running from your  _bloody Templars_!" Accusation, the last two words hissed under his breath like a knife trying to stab me through the heart, but I'm ready for it. My heart already bears such wounds as this.

Calm, cold, collected. My mask stays in place, the wise older sister, the voice of reason in our business discussion. Any thoughts, and desires not of this immediate moment have to be dismissed, banished, displaced; I must forget how small I am, more than a head shorter than my burly younger brother, how pale and thin I am from lack during this last year trying to keep my family alive in the hovel we now call home. I must forget that I am a mage, that, were it not for that problem, my family could be living so much better. "I know how you feel, but we'll earn no favors with your fist in his face."

Carver's angry toss of his messy black hair as he stomps off tells me, no matter what, he cannot forget. Or forgive. "Then we do nothing, as always."

"My brother can be hotheaded," I say diplomatically, turning back to the dwarf, trying to stand in such a way that he sees more of my chain tunic than the graying homespun blouse and worn leather pants and patched boots made for a soldier much larger than I then cut and re-stitched to fit my feet. I want him to see me as a fighter, not some worthless piece of baggage trying to sail along on her brother's wake. "But we do have the skills to benefit your expedition."

"You're looking for a quick way out of the slums, right?" Amber eyes look me up and down, and for a minute I have hope, but then I realize what he's looking at.  _Maker, not again._ Please _, Maker, not again._  In one motion I slip my staff from my back, gripping it tightly in my hand, my own gaze never faltering as I see his face contort and color.  _No, I'm not hiring myself out_ that _way._  "You and every other Ferelden in this dump. Find another meal ticket." Silently, I turn and walk away, keeping my staff in my hand until Carver rejoins me, then I slip it back into the hanger on my shoulder. He's oblivious, as always, but I don't try to enlighten him to what just went on. Obliviousness to what happens to me is one of the few gifts I can offer my little brother in these hard times.

He didn't ask when I walked away from the Red Irons, and I didn't say; doesn't ask why, when things are so dire I don't go crawling back to Meeran for a job to see us through. Maybe he thinks I can't stand the thought of begging for scraps from someone who essentially owned us for a year; maybe he thinks it's like the little bits of healing I do when I can for people I know will keep my secret - a matter of honor that I won't sully by placing a price on it. There's a twisted irony in the fact that my brother actually thinks I'm honorable enough to believe that life shouldn't have a price, because I'm not. There are very few things I wouldn't do for my family;  _that_  just happens to be one of them.

"Well, back to waiting for someone to turn us in." Carver sighs and slumps his shoulders, looking so dejected and pathetic it takes all I can do not to laugh, even though it's not funny at all. He doesn't know how right he is; I've spent a lifetime seeing to that, but I have to calm him down before he does something stupid, for his own sake. I've already lost one sibling to my own carelessness, I'm not about to lose another.

"It'll get harder if we're at each other's throats." Calm, cold, collected; still the mask. Well, maybe not so cold this time, I let a touch of warmth thaw the frost of my words as we walk beside each other through the streets of Hightown,

"I know. It just… seems like you die in this city, or you end up like the scum we're bargaining with. We need coin, status, something we can shove in that dwarf's face. And keep people off our backs." He hesitates for a moment, rolling his tongue in his mouth like he's trying to decide whether what's inside is sweet or so bitter it needs spit out; for a moment he has such a look of lost child that I feel the scarce two years between us as if they were centuries. Finally, he blurts: "And all I can think of is Uncle Gamlen."

It's not a bad thought, but not the best either. I hate beholding to our mother's brother, though I doubt that Carver likes it anymore than I do. Really, what other choice is there, though? As it is, we can't go forward, and we can't go back. Things stay the way they are now, I know where I'll end up. Thoughts of being hunted by Templars chill my blood, though my mind doesn't dwell on what they will do to me when caught.  _Oh, Papa, how much longer do I have? Will it be long enough?_ "He got us into the city, more or less." Finally I reply, dragging my thoughts away from Templars and the memory of my mother's face as she looked at the small amount of old cheese and stringy, dried mystery meat I had managed to procure for dinner the night before. "If there's a chance he can push Bartrand…"

"Worth checking, I guess. What else can we do? We're losing ground, and I don't fancy waking up in the Gallows." Another dagger finds my heart as he glares at me again, letting me know once more this is all my fault. My lips part to remind me that I had no choice in what, how, or when I was born, and had I been given the choice I certainly would have chosen differently than my current reality. I never wanted to be a mage, never wanted the curse that infects my blood without any known cure other than the living death known as tranquility, but the decision was not mine, nor was it his, and before I get the words out, the pickpocket stumbling into my side pushes me off balance and out of… normal… awareness just long enough for me to forget what else is going on. By the time I've regained my wits enough to chase after the thief, I see a dwarf… an odd dwarf, with a crossbow of all things… recovering my coins from the man he had pinned to the wall with a well-placed bolt, before felling him with a hard punch to the jaw.

"How do you do? Varric Tethras, at your service!" The dwarf smiles at me, uncertainly, I smile back, then with a flash of knowing, I realize we have a way in for our way out.

* * *

_Breathe life into this feeble heart  
_ _Lift this mortal veil of fear  
_ _Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears  
_ _We'll rise above these earthly cares_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Lyrics from "Dante's Prayer" by Loreena McKennitt. I own nothing. I'm really not satisfied with this chapter, and I was really debating putting it up at all, and I honestly may take it back down later, but I couldn't figure out how to get more of the Carver / Ebony dynamics into the Anders intro chapter coming up next, so this is staying for now. If I can figure out how to re-write this later, I will.


	3. Chapter Two: Healing Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N the first: This chapter is from Ander's viewpoint. From here on, any time the narration is in first person, it will be from Ebony my Hawkette's viewpoint, while third person means it is someone else (Anders, Varric, Fenris, what have you). Thank you to the three people who have subscribed, please R&R, let me know what you like and what I need to improve on (and if I really screw anything up).

_For the pain and the sorrow caused by my mistakes  
_ _Won't repent to a mortal whom is all to blame  
_ _Now I know I won't make it  
_ _T_ _here will be a time we'll get back our freedom  
_ _They can't break what's inside_

* * *

Pale, listless, unaware of the world around them, the boy lays on the rough table before him, head lolling from side to side, forehead and upper lip dotted with sweat born of fever. Hair already grey from tribulation, his young mother kneels to one side, clutching desperately at the wooden cot, waiting to see what happens, while the boy's father bends over the head of the bed, looking down at his son with intense lines of pain etched in his face as if carved with a chisel. It would be a scene typical of any clinic in any other part of any other poor section of Thedas except for one thing: neither parent whispers prayers to Andraste or the Maker, only waits and watches with baited breath and tired acceptance. But then again, to bring their child to him, to an apostate mage hiding from both templars and the Grey Wardens in the depths of this Maker-forsaken hole, that is only the action of people who know that true hope does not lay in an all too absent god.

Blue energy glows from his hands as he spreads his senses to reach inside the child, trying to feel the source of the infection, to chase down and destroy every life-ending organism floating through his body, no matter how invisible it is to anyone else. Nothing seems to help, and he closes his eyes, willing more energy through his hands and into the boy's body; it's almost too much, and for a moment he is certain he has killed them both, then the boy jerks up on the table, bright eyed, fever gone, into the waiting arms of his mother. Spent, the healer collapses, turning away from the family to give them some privacy to their celebration of life, nodding his thanks to the father for a strong hand to help him straighten, then waving away an offer of payment and profuse thanks. Drained, that is all he feels, and he reaches up to rub the tension from his forehead -

 _Threat._ A presence in the clinic triggers a thought in his mind both his and not his at the same time, and he feels the rage take hold for a split second before he pushes it back down. _Innocents nearby. Calm._ Reaching for his staff he twirls around, all exhaustion forgotten, assuming a battle stance as he stares down the new arrivals. Strange company, this: a dwarf, armed with a crossbow and dressed like some sort of rogue from a fantasy tale; a copper-haired City Guard with wary eyes set in a hard face; and a large man with bulging muscles and a massive sword strapped to his back in a way that says he knows the way of the warrior. Yet it is none of these three who has triggered his defenses, none of them he sees as a true threat. Instead it is a small, skinny wisp of a girl, black haired falling in curls past her shoulders, amethyst eyes glittering jewel-like in her pale face.  _Hekate… no, not Hekate… so much like her; who?_ Like him, she is only armed with a staff, only dressed in simple clothing covered with a rusted chain shirt that would do little or nothing to protect against either arrows or bladed weapons; as a man he sees her as pretty, but delicate, like a hot-house flower not meant to survive in the real world. Nothing but an enticement to the usual ruffian on the street.

But, as a mage, all he can see is the energy, the mana, the magic she carries as she moves through the room, the impossible brilliance that none of true power can hide: to him, she glows as brightly as the sun.

"I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation. Why do you threaten it?" He holds his staff before him, tilted slightly before him in a way that shows the will to both attack and defend, his eyes never leaving the girl's face. No, not Hekate at all; but so close it makes his chest ache for his old friend. "Who are you?"

Slowly, as if to show him she means no threat, she submissively raises her empty hands. "My name is Ebony Hawke; I'm just here to talk." Her voice carries the sweet cadence of Ferelden, pure and clear with just a hint of nobility, and a wave of homesickness hits him again, but he doesn't allow his guard to relax. It would be like Rolan to have planned past his death enough to find another mage so much like Hekate to drag him into another trap. "Did the Wardens send you to bring me back? I'm not going. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat. Poor Ser Pounce-a-lot. He hated the Deep Roads." Snorts of mirth burst from both the tower of muscles and the guardswoman, and he is gratified to see a small smile blossom on the girl - Ebony's - face when the dwarf mutters "I  _have_  to remember to write that one down."

"You had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-lot? In the Deep Roads?"

"He was a gift. A noble beast. Almost got ripped in half by a genlock once. He swatted the bugger on the nose. Drew blood too. The blighted Wardens said he 'made me too soft.' I had to give him to a friend in Amaranthine."

"So you came to Kirkwall just to escape the Wardens?"  _Be rid of her. Too many questions._ Curiosity is normal, though, isn't it? Perhaps there's no need to be paranoid with her.  _No. Do not relax around this one. She is… dangerous._

 _Dangerous?_ "You say that like it's a small thing. Yes, I'm here because there's no Warden outpost, no darkspawn, and a whole host of refugees to blend in with." There is a twitch from her field of mana, like a sympathetic harmony; so she knows what it means to hide in the crowd does she? Not surprising; what apostate doesn't know how to hide. "And some reasons of my own."

"I'm part of an expedition into the Deep Roads. Any information you have can save people's lives." Tricky little wench, to spot his weakness that quickly. Or… maybe… No, no one is naturally that innocently selfless. Everyone has their point when they sell out, do things they would never consider doing at any other time, the point when they will use anyone and everyone around them to get what they want.  _Just like me. What haven't I done to get justice? Or vengeance?_

"I will die a happy man if I never think about the blighted Deep Roads again. You can't imagine what I've come through to get here." Bitterness and venom, the flavors drip from his words and flood his mouth. "I'm not interested…" Flicker: fear, pain, hopelessness, despair, death. But none of it about herself, all directed towards others:  _the man with the black hair, scowling down at a dinner that he knows will not fill his belly, a mother tossing and turning on a hard plank bed stained with grime and infested with insects no matter how much she scrubs, a large Mabari hound scratching at the bite marks from mice that come out to nibble at him while he sleeps._  Nothing about her, no worries about her own stomach, or her own exhaustion, or her own wounds. It's all about others.  _Maker, she really is that selfless. Where is the justice in this? "_ Although… a favor for a favor. Does that sounds like a fair deal? You help me, I'll help you?"

"Help my expedition reach the Deep Roads, and I'll do whatever you need."

He barely suppresses a smile at her quick, honest answer, even as his insides twinges slightly.  _The problem with innocent people is that they rarely understand other people are not so innocent._ "You don't ask for my terms? What if I were asking for the knight-commander's head on a spike?"

" _Is_  that what you ask?" Fearful glance to the black-haired man - her brother, it must be, even though they share so little either in stature or presence - a glance mostly concealed, though easily caught by eyes trained by years of living trapped among those who watched his every step, the entire time secretly plotting his own escape, his own personal revolution.

"You decide." Another sidelong glace towards her brother, another glare from him back to her. Interesting, that, the brother more concerned about templars than the sister, and not out of any love that he could see, only pure, selfish calculation.  _Damn to the Void all templars, that even brothers fear what their sisters are._ "I have a Warden map of the depths in this area. But there's a price. I came to Kirkwall to help a friend. A mage. A prisoner in the wretched Gallows. The templars learned of my plans to free him. Help me bring him safely past them, and you shall have your maps."

"You want to make your friend an apostate?" Something flickers in the aura of mana that surrounds her, some emotion he cannot understand, intense and primal, and for a breath he thinks this is the moment she reveals herself to be the spy for Rolan and the Wardens come to bring him down he originally thought her. But then the emotion is gone, contained, and he can see nothing in her eyes that suggests what it might be, only his own reflection and the light of clinic hearth's flames dancing in the bottomless jeweled pool that is her gaze.

"That's such a weighted term. Yes, Andraste said magic is to serve man, not rule him. But I've yet to meet a mage who wants to rule anything. It goes against no will of the Maker for mages to live as free as other men."

Finally, she averts her eyes from his, looking away, into the distance, into the past. When she speaks, her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, but the sad force within it cannot be smoothed by lowered tones alone. "Forcing mages into servitude is not the way to prevent the rise of another Imperium."

"That's not usually the response I get. Perhaps we will work together better than I expected."

"Tell me about your friend."

"His name is Karl Thekla. He was sent here from Ferelden when Kirkwall's Circle needed new talent. His last letter said the knight-commander was turning the Circle into a prison. Mages are locked in their cells, refused appearances at court, made Tranquil for the slightest crimes. I told him I would come."

"Are these accusations true?" Lines mar her forehead as she starts slightly in horror; for him, it is a nightmare, for her, who has so obviously lived without such touches on her life, it must be no different than watching her own beating heart ripped from her chest.

"Ask any mage in Kirkwall. Over a dozen were made Tranquil just this year. The more people you ask, the worse the rumors become."

Determination glows in the depths of her dark eyes, and she nods in assent, holding out her hand in pledge. "I would help any mage in such circumstances, map or no. How do you plan to break him out of the Gallows?"

"I'm hoping it won't come to that. I sent Karl a message to meet me in the Chantry tonight. Maker willing, he'll be there, alone. But if there are templars with him, I swear, I'll free him from them. Whatever the cost. I welcome your aid. We'll make sure that no matter who is with him, we all walk away free."

"The Chantry? Are you mad? You don't think that three mages are going to be a little conspicuous there?" Her brother can be silent no longer, his frustration a storm in the relative stillness of the clinic.

"Carver, please, for Mother's sake…"

"No, Sister! This is mad! How do we even know he has these maps? We don't know him, this could be just another trap that leads right to the templars and the Gallows. Is that what you want? All of us in there because of some lying mage we don't know anything about?"

"My name is Anders, I was recruited in the Grey Wardens by the Hero of Ferelden after I escaped from the Circle Tower. I left them and came here. That's all true. What else do you want to know… Carver, is it?" Anders keeps his tone mild, despite his intense desire to take his staff and…

"You say you knew the Hero of Ferelden, alright." Carvers eyes narrow, his lips twisted as he thinks of a question that he is certain the mage cannot answer. "Tell me about her."

"Her name is Hekate Amell, last I saw her she was rushing off to protect some other ungrateful person around Amaranthine from something or other. One of the best friends I ever had."

Carver snorts with triumph. "See, I told you he was lying. He doesn't even know what she looks like."

The man is starting to turn away, when Ander's voice stops him in his tracks, his words rising and falling almost in the cadence of a song. "She looks almost exactly like your sister, only with a slight difference to the eyes; something in them… you know what I mean." Half a smirk twists on his face as he sees Carver squirm; yes, he knows exactly what he means

"Satisfied, Brother?" One black eyebrow quirks, but no smile touches her lips before she nods slightly towards the other mage. "We'll see you at the Chantry tonight, then."

He hears the dwarf as the group leaves, teasing Carver about his temper tantrum then switching to tease Ebony about looking like Hekate Amell. Long curls the same shade as her name float down her back as she tosses her head slightly, turning toward the rogue with a glimmer in her unusual eyes. "Well, I would. Our mother's maiden name is Amell, we're cousins."

Maker help him, but he is looking forward to tonight for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with Karl, and everything to do with that pair of shadowed amethyst eyes.

* * *

_Open up your eyes  
_ _Save yourself from fading away now, don't let it go  
_ _Open up your eyes  
_ _See what you've become, don't sacrifice  
_ _It's truly the heart of everything_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N the second: Standard "I own nothing, not even my own heart, it's gone (a wizard did it)" disclaimer. Lyrics from "The Heart of Everything" by Within Temptation.


	4. Chapter Three: Vigil's Keep

_From your face, your eyes_   
_They're burned into me._   
_You saved me, you gave me_   
_Just what I need._   
_Oh, just what I need._

* * *

Another pair of amethyst eyes float in his mind as he finishes with his patients for the night, but they are not full of deep shadows, reflecting back a heart so scarred with pain he's not sure how it keep beating. Hekate's eyes were always lit with laughter when they were children, twinkling with mischief when she reached her adolescence, glowing with strength as the Warden Commander, though it wasn't a harsh glow, but something like the warmth of the sun, her good humor still evident in the violet depths. Thinking about her takes him back so many months, across so many miles, back to Vigil's Keep. Back to the last day he had seen those happy, laughing eyes…

* * *

"All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools." As far as Anders was concerned, none of those were unreasonable desires; happiness and a full belly were the basic rights of every living being, and if the Maker saw fit to make him a mage, well, who were mortal men to argue the point? Seven escape attempt from the Circle of Magi, an unexpected run-in with an old acquaintance (who was a  _very_ pretty girl, but, unfortunately, not his girl), and a mouthful of darkspawn blood later, here he was, sitting down to a huge dinner with the rest of the Grey Wardens after a long day of electrocuting anyone who was stupid enough to try to challenge them. Nathaniel and Oghren were fighting over who got the first basket of bread, and while they were distracted he neatly filched the dwarf's mutton chop, setting it on his own plate to eat.

"Hungry or just seeing if he notices?" asked the woman on his right, tossing her head slightly to try to clear a stray black curl from her face as she ate soup with a horn spoon with one hand and read through the piles of letters and documents awaiting her attention as arlessa of Amaranthine. "Because I wouldn't put my hand anywhere near Oghren's plate when he hasn't had anything to drink. He might eat it instead of the food."

"Even with only one hand I'd still be able to heal better than you. My fireballs would be hotter too," Anders replied cheekily, stuffing his face with meat and potatoes, then washing it all down with a mug of ale, handily liberated from Warden Howe while his back was turned.

"Maybe, but Velanna's are still bigger. And do more damage."

"You know, for such a beautiful woman, you really are very cruel sometimes."

"So Alistair keeps telling me."

"How is the king anyway?"

"Bored. He says he'd rather be here fighting darkspawn than dealing with all the nobles. But of course, I don't tell him mow much fighting with nobles is done here, either." She sighed and set the letter down, running her now-free hand through her hair. "Whoever thought we'd actually miss how simple the Blight was: get up in the morning, kill something, eat, kill something else, recruit allies, kill other things, go back to camp, eat dinner, make loud, mad, passionate love in my tent all night. Those were great nights, just thinking about it makes me want to…"

"Not listening to this…" Her lips quirked again, then broke out in a full grin, which he returned in full force. She was mocking him, and he knew it; of all the apprentices at the Circle, she had been one of the very few who wasn't hiking up her robes with every other person there, unlike him, who had so many lovers he couldn't count. The Warden-Commander and King of Ferelden had fallen hard for each other, though, and at times it made heart ache for her when he saw the distance in her eyes and knew she was thinking about the man she loved, miles away, trapped in a marriage of politics to his brother's widow with them only able to be together when the nobles and darkspawn cooperated.  _All I want is a pretty girl…_ "Hex, stop being so damn noble and go see him already. Half the country thinks Anora's barren already, and if the King were to divorce her and marry the Arlessa of Amaranthine, no one would say a damn thing."

"The Void they wouldn't."

"They wouldn't! You saved the entire world from a Blight. Remember that? Stabbing the big corrupted demon dragon in the head? Everyone would love you as their queen!"

"Right, just one small problem there." Removing her hand from her hair, she made a fist, then spread her fingers, a small ball of blue flames hovering over her palm. " 'Magic is to serve man, and never rule over him.' Though personally, if you ask me, Alistair does more serving than anyone else I know, but we're listening to Andraste and the Chantry, not me."

"To keep two hearts which love so brightly apart because of their circumstances of birth is not just," said a low voice from behind them, and the two mages turned to see the rotting corpse face of Justice standing behind them, obviously very interested in their conversation.

Hekate laughed, a long, clear, bell-like peal that echoed in the hall for a moment as she closed her hand to smother the fireball, then shook out her hair again, gathering her letters from the table. "I hate to break it to you, but justice and mages rarely go together in Thedas."

"That is… disturbing." Justice's face was getting decidedly less expressive lately as there is less and less skin, but Ander's guessed he was upset.

"That's reality, Justice. So, Hex, off to settle another dispute in the arling tomorrow? Safe journey." He nudged her, flickering his aura against hers in a friendly manner.

"Be well both of you; Anders,  _behave_  while I'm gone. Stroud's running things, Maker help us." She shot a glance across the hall where the Orlesian second-in-command foisted on her by the First Warden's orders sat. "And try not to kill Rolan will you? I know he's an ass, but it will just cause more problems with the Templars. Again."

Both man and spirit bid her good night and clear roads, watching until her blue robes disappeared around a corner towards her chambers. "There is truly no justice for your people, is there mage? She will never be allowed to live freely with the man she loves, not he to freely to love her in return."

"It's better for mages not to love at all. Loving something or someone just means that the Templars can use it against you."  _Poor Pounce._ Rolan had seen how much he meant to Anders and run off to Stroud, who even brought the First Warden into it when Hex wouldn't make him get rid of the cat. At least Nathaniel's sister was taking care of him, so he knew that he was safe. "All I want is a pretty girl, but I'll never get her without fearing every waking moment that the templars will take her from me." He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he heard Justice's sharp his as the spirit started, staring him down.

"They would not dare do something so… unjust."

He laughed, finishing his filched ale and standing to stretch before heading off to his own bed. "Oh yes they would. After all, they took me from my mother before I was twelve, and Hex from her parents before she was even that old. If they can take babes from arms, why not lovers? We're only mages, after all. No one cares about us but, well,  _us_."

* * *

 _Try not to kill Rolan_ , Hekate had said. The last words between them; next dawn she was gone, and next night Justice had made his offer: "It is time. You have shown me an injustice greater than any I have faced. Do you have the courage to accept my aid?" He knew what the offer meant, knew what he would become, but he couldn't stand it anymore: the thought of being able to do something, anything, that would create a world where Alistair ruled with his beloved Queen Hekate while he lived in peace with his own pretty girl and their bevy of children, never having to fear the templars as long as they lived… Such visions were his courage, and he said yes, never fully considering, never fully  _thinking_  what he was doing, who he was doing it in front of. Rolan, damn his soul, had gotten permission to hunt and kill him as an abomination, and it was his twisted rage when the battle killed the templar, and changed him forever. There is no justice for mages; there is only vengeance. Anders finishes with his last patient and glances towards the slot window, noting the low red glow on the horizon. Good, it will be dark soon, and they can go rescue Karl. A rush of excitement runs through him, and for a moment he is unsure if it is at the though of finally seeing is friend free, or seeing the apostate girl, Hawke, once more.

* * *

 _Somehow, I couldn't stop myself._  
 _I just wanted to know how it felt._  
 _Too strong, I couldn't hold on._  
 _Yeah, yeah._  
 _Now I'm just tryin' to make some sense_  
 _Out of how and why this happened._  
 _Where we're heading, there's just no knowing._  
 _Yeah, yeah_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Standard "I don't own a darn thing" disclaimer. Lyrics from "Crashed" by Daughtry. I know it's supposed to be a love song, but for some reason when I was listening to it the other day it reminded me of Justice and Anders. Maybe I'm just twisted that way. Or maybe someone needs to write a slash fic about them. But not me; I'm not in to necrophilia.


	5. Chapter Four: Tranquility

_White walls surround us  
No light will touch your face again  
Rain taps the window  
As we sleep among the dead_

* * *

" _No_. Absolutely not! There is no way in the Void that you're going wandering off to the Chantry to help some mage we don't even know. What if it's a trap?"

Blue eyes narrowed in anger fix on me, and I stare right back, unflinching and not backing down. Carver may not like the fact his is younger, but oldest I am, and when the time comes for the hard decisions, I make them for the sake of our family. "We need the maps, Carver! We have to get out of here! Get Mother out of here! Besides, if it is a trap, then I get dragged off to the Gallows and you don't have to worry about being 'where's your older sister, I need her', anymore, do you?" I do my best to catch Meeran's tone when I say those words, the way he brushed off Carver whenever our old boss saw him before me. Of course, Carver doesn't actually know what Meeran meant when he said he "needed" me, or he'd realize that is a need he can't and doesn't want to fill. My soul feels dirty just thinking about it, and I shiver, the rage deepening on my brother's face.

"Maker, I hate you! I hope the templars do catch you and take you away! You don't care anything for any of us; not Mother, not me. You couldn't even save Bethany or Father!"

My own blood boils as I think of those two I failed so bitterly, the two quarters of my heart so broken they will never heal. "That's enough, Carver."

"Even back home, what could I be? The lone blade in a house full of mages? If I excelled, it brought too much attention. That was a waste, huh? Could have found my fortune if Bethany was going to die on your watch anyway."

"Feel better getting that off your chest?" My tone is cold, but this wound cuts me to the quick, and I want to hear no more. He knows nothing of the pain inside me, how I still dream of those days, how I would do anything,  _anything_  - give myself over to Meeran, blood magic, even sell my soul to the Archdemon - for a chance to bring them back. Through the Fade to the Black City, across rivers of blood and deserts of fire I would wander, just for the chance to beg the Maker to accept my broken soul in exchange for theirs.

"I… I suppose." He hesitates, looking at me like he's afraid I'm going to turn into a demon any moment. I can't handle it; I know what I am as well as he does, better even, and if the last twenty years haven't proven that I would die before willingly harming my family, then he's not worth it.

"Good. Because I keep every death with me. If you want that weight, be sure you're ready to take it." There is silence, and he looks away from me, down on the floor, as if ashamed. I know my sins all too well, my failings. Carver doesn't need to rub my face in them every chance he gets. "All right." The subject must be dropped before we tear each other apart, so I spin away, striding towards the door to head out into the night.

"Sister." He calls me back as I approach the door, and I stop, keeping my back turned so the anger and hurt won't show. There is only one way to protect my brother, with silence, so protect him I do. "I feel.. I don't know. It's like Mother, taking everything out on us. She was just scared. I don't have a place in Kirkwall, in our new family. I'm here if you need me. But I must find my own way." Behind me, I hear his boots on the rough floor as he goes into the room he shares with Gamlen, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"I love you, Carver." I whisper into the air, finally letting the tears fall down my face.

Anders is waiting for me when I reach the Chantry, alone an hour after sunset. I know Aveline and Varric would willingly be here, but for some reason I feel like this is something only a mage really understands, to try and free one of our fellows, to lead them into the life of running and hiding known as apostate. The only life I've ever known. Not to mention I consider the woman who came with us from Ferelden part of our family now, and on the off chance there are templars here, I don't want to have to remember the one she loved so deeply she killed him rather than see him become a darkspawn.

"You look like you've been crying," he says, and I scrub at my cheeks, trying to erase the tell-tale tear trails from my face.

"Got into an argument with my brother. It's nothing."

"About me?"

"Among other things." Carver's still my brother, and I feel like I have to explain, to excuse his actions to the man in front of me, even if they still cut so deeply. "It's been hard for him; our sister and father were also…" Gesturing so he understands, I shrug. "Now that they're gone… it's harder for him to deal with the way our lives have been. Never in any place too long, never able to be too close to anyone or anything, in case we can't take it with us."

His brown eyes lock on to my own violet gaze, and I'm surprised by the emotion I see there. Like he knows all too well how it is to be afraid to trust yourself with anyone. Rapidly, the subject is changed to the business at hand. "I saw Karl go inside a few minutes ago. No templars so far."

"I didn't see anyone suspicious out here." I'd walked a circuit of the Chantry courtyard before coming up to meet him, taking time to read the posts on the Chanter's board, pulling down a notice from a 'Prince Sebastian Vael', calling for the deaths of mercenaries who had murdered his family. No one had bothered me, approached me, or even glanced in my direction while I did that, even though I'm openly wearing a Tevinter staff on my back. I'd say we're alone. For now. "Let's do this fast and get your friend someplace safe."

"All right. When we find Karl, just let me talk to him. You watch for templars." Nodding my assent, he opens the great doors a crack, just wide enough for him to squeeze through. My smaller form follows after, and with a heavy sound, it closes behind us, shutting out the night and sealing our fates to whatever must now come. Everything is still within the Chantry, candle flames burning straight up without a single flicker in front of the many statues, incense hanging heavy on the air. The whispers of our boots against the stone are the only noises that reach my ears, and I feel a shiver go up my spine when I see both the nave and altar are completely empty except for the towering icons of Andraste and her Maker. Stairs lead up to balcony overlooking the pulpit, but as I pass one of the lay brother's quarters, I feel something, a stir of air perhaps, and I turn, seeing a man in mage's robes standing in the shadows. My companion's eyes light up and he starts to walk towards the figure, then stops, looking slightly confused as the other man starts to speak.

"Anders. I know you too well. I knew you would never give up."

"What's wrong? Why are you talking like…" Karl turns, and I feel my heart stop in my chest. Clear on his forehead is the sigil of the risen sun, the brand of a Tranquil mage.

"I was too rebellious. Like you. I had to be… made an example of."

"No!" There is sheer pain on Ander's face as he cries out his denial, and I start to go to him, to try and console him, though I don't know how, when a gauntleted hand closes over my mouth, an arm sheathed in silverite wrapping around my waist, pinioning my arms and lifting me off my feet. Flames surge up my skin, but are doused as soon as they start, the mana field I usually carry as close as my own soul drained to nothing.  _Templars!_

"How else will mages ever master themselves? You'll understand, Anders. As soon as the templars teach you to control yourself. This is the apostate." Tranquil and healer turn in our direction, Karl to address the man holding me as a dozen of his companions surround us, Anders to look to why I have not given warning. His face contorts when he sees me trapped in the templar's grasp, and I beg him with my eyes just to run. He is a Grey Warden, after all; he can get away. As for me, I know it's too late.

And then before us, he begins to change, a deep blue I associate with the lyrium and the Fade filling his eyes as he drops to his knees in agony. When he comes back up, his entire body his crackling with the energy; the voice that emanates from his body echoes within me, and with a sudden rush I feel mana begin to flow back into my blood. " **You will never take another mage as you took him!** "

* * *

When the Templars surround them, Anders is unready, too focused on the emotionless husk that was once his friend to notice surroundings, to hear the heavy treat of armored boots on the stairs. Even the dark-haired girl, so much like Hekate, is absent from his thoughts until he finds himself facing down a dozen templars, and then he looks for her, expecting to see she too has betrayed him. Instead she is caught up in the arms of one of the large males, mouth covered, sparkling eyes dull from having her mana drained. Resigned to her fate, those eyes tell him, but still pleading with him to get out of there while he can. Righteous anger shoots through his blood like fire, sending his body to his knees; they will not have this pure creature, this innocent girl, more selfless than any being he has ever met. She deserves  _justice_. " **You will never take another mage as you took him!** "

When Anders' body rises back to his feet, ready to fight, it is no longer  _he_ who stands before the doomed holy warriors; it is  _they_.  _They_  release the power of the Fade into the Chantry, filling the girl's eyes with the light of mana once more, then sending a bolt of spirit energy into the eyes of the templar holding her. With a cry of agony the man drops Hawke, and she lands on her feet, coming up with her staff in hand to send a wave of ice at three more who leap forward to grab at her. Screams and clanging metal echo off the stones as they freeze, then shatter at a hit from an invisible fist.

 _They_  are rushed, staff twirling in their hands as they shoot off more spirit energy, blocking swords with the sharpened end, pushing back with demonic strength to knock two more over the railing, to their deaths on the hard stone below. Hawke fumbles at her waist, pulling out a small glass sphere, which she throws at a knot of four, coating them with some sort of green liquid that melts their armor like lava when she follows up with a fireball. Another templar appears behind  _them_ , daggers flashing at their back; but before the strike lands she steps into the blow, one dagger sliding into her left shoulder, though she manages to twist just in time to keep the cut shallow. With a cry she spins around, knocking the assailant behind the knees with the thick part of her Tevinter staff, then stabbing down with the bladed end into his unprotected throat. She is bleeding freely, lame in one arm, backed into a corner, but  _they_  will not let her be taken.  _They_  lash their arms out, and the hated sword symbols on the remaining templars explode in shards of metal, hotter than the sun, cutting through organs and bone, melting the flesh off what were, a moment ago, men, until nothing remains but piles of ashes and smoldering bone.

Only then, falling to the ground, surrounded by corpses, a Tranquil mage, and his wounded companion, does Anders return to himself. "Are you alright?" Hawke pants near his ear as she kneels down beside him, cradling her wounded arm against her chest.

Karl's voice brings his head up. It is not the voice of the Tranquil he and Hawke had heard in the moments before the battle, but the voice he remembers from their years in the Circle - full of emotion and wonder. "I- Anders what did you do? It's like… you brought a piece of the Fade into this world. I had already forgotten what that feels like."

"I thought the Tranquil were cut off from the Fade forever." As Anders stands, she struggles to her feet, leaning heavily on her staff, before reaching out her uninjured arm towards Karl, light the same color as her eyes glowing in her palm. For a moment the former Grey Warden is confused, then he realizes she is searching the Tranquil for wounds, seeing if there is something within him she can heal.  _Maker, girl, you're_ bleeding _. Worry about yourself._

"When you're Tranquil, you never think on your life before. But… it's like the Fade itself is  _inside_ Anders. Burning like a sun." With a rush, Anders' feathered shoulders are seized by his friend, a frenzied, desperate look in his eyes. "Please, kill me before I forget again! I don't know how you brought it back, but it's fading!"

"Karl, no…"

* * *

 _It's happening again_ , that's all I can think as I watch Karl beg Anders to kill him, hear Anders' agonized denial. I've seen this too many times, and it hurts so badly that I forget the pain in my shoulder as I focus the energy inside me, trying to feel how this artificial link to the Fade is being formed, how it can be shaped, strengthened. "Maybe we can find a cure." I think we can do it; at the very least I can kill myself trying.

"Can you cure a beheading?" Tears fill Anders' eyes, and I reach out to try and show him through magic what I think we can do, but he pulls his arm back, shaking his head hard. "The dreams of Tranquil mages are severed; there is nothing left of them to fix."

Karl looks straight at me, and I wonder if he sees into my soul, or if he sees something else. It must be something else, because he looks back at our mutual friend, nodding in determination. "I would rather die a mage than live as a templar puppet."

"I got here too late. I'm sorry Karl. I'm so sorry."

"Now! It's fading…" As the artificial link to the Fade ceases to glow, so does the light in his eyes, leaving them blank and emotionless, just like his voice, the voice of a Tranquil when he asks us both: "Why do you look at me like that?"

Stepping forward, Anders places one steadying hand on his friend's shoulder, the other reaching to his hip, drawing out a dagger the length of my forearm. "Goodbye." From my spot behind him, it looks like the two men are hugging, but the sound of the blade sheathing its self in Karl's body, the tang of blood in the air, and mad rush of life as he fades from my senses tells me all too well what is really going on. "We should leave before more templars come." Anders tells me in a dead voice, turning on his heel to lead the way back down the stairs, out of the Chantry, and away from all the death behind us.

* * *

Hawke's arm is bleeding even worse when they reach the safety of his clinic, and he gently helps her peel off the chain shirt, having to dig a few of the metal rings out of the wound. The homespun blouse she wears beneath is graying from wear, except where it is stained bright read with her blood. A whistle escapes his lips as he looks over the wound, surprised she not only kept fighting, but kept standing after that wound; it may be shallow, but it's also twice as long as his hand, running from the back of her neck almost to her elbow. "That must have hurt like blazes."

"To be honest I barely noticed until afterwards. I tend to get a little… focused, at times." Anders nods as he washes out the wound with a rinse of elfroot and witch-hazel, wanting to make certain there is no more debris in it from either her blouse or rusted chain before he closes it.

"I'm sure it makes life easier, being able to close things off."

She closes her eyes as he rests his hand over the wound, knitting the skin together. "I've been head of my family since I was sixteen. If I can't disconnect myself to my own problems to take care of them, I won't be any good to anyone." A soft sigh of relief answers the final surge of magic, and he removes his hands, leaving the white skin beneath smooth and unmarked. "That wasn't normal magic you just did in the Chantry, was it?"

Anders sits back, running his blood-stained hands under the witch-hazel mixture to clean them as he decides what to say, Hawke tucking her long legs under her flank on the examination table as she watches him. "I… this is hard to explain. When I was in Amaranthine, I met a spirit of Justice who was trapped outside the Fade. We became friends. And he recognized the injustice that mages in Thedas face every day."  _Hekate, standing up on the turrets, staring off into the direction of Denerim, aching for the life she could never have. Him, one arm around her, wishing with all his might for a girl who cared for him as much as Hex loved her king, knowing that all the wishes in the world would never make any mage free enough to love._ "To live outside the Fade, he needed a host. I offered to help him… We were going to work together, bring justice to every child ever ripped away from his mother to be sent to the Circle. But… I guess I had too much anger. Once he was inside me, he… changed."

Amethyst eyes look at him with compassion as her small calloused hand grips his smooth one, magic flowing from her to him to ease the spots where he is just now starting to get the blisters from a life of hard work. "This must be difficult for you."

 _How can you be so calm? How can you stand to touch me?_ "I thought I was helping me friend. He would have… died, I guess. If that even means anything. And he wanted to help me. He knew what mages had suffered. But my anger… when I see templars now, things that have always outraged me, but I could never do anything about… He comes out. And he is no longer my friend Justice. He is a force of vengeance. And he has no grasp of mercy."

"Can you control it?"

 _Yes, please, worry about that. Get out of here while you still can. Run, before I hurt you._ "No. He comes only when I've lost all power over myself. It's a madness, a frenzy. I only after find out what I might have done. It is a curse, and I have no one to blame for it but myself."

Her hands grip his tighter, trying to pull him back from despair, and for a moment he hates her for it. She cannot do this, cannot be this understanding. It's harder than he ever dreamed possible. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

 _Maker, have mercy on me. Help me withstand temptation. For her sake._ "You're the first one I've ever told this. Thank you for not running away. My maps are yours; I thought I was done with the Grey Wardens, but if you have any need of me in planning your expedition… I will be here."

Hawke gives his hands another squeeze, then climbs from the table, picking up the ruined chain shirt from the floor. "Let me know if you ever need any help down here. My father taught me a bit about healing before he died. It's the least I can do for my fellow Fereldens. Good night, Anders." He cannot help but watch her go, and even though his heart is heavy with the loss of Karl, with the weight of everything he told her, it lifts slightly when she turns back to give him a slight smile as she closes the door.

* * *

_There is nothing left of you  
I can see it in your eyes  
Sing the anthem of the angels  
And say the last goodbye_

_I keep holding onto you  
But I can't bring you back to life  
Sing the anthem of the angels  
And say the last goodbye_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Lyrics from "Anthem of the Angels" by Breaking Benjamin. Anders/Justice (what's a good nickname for that? Justers? Andice?) may seem slightly overpowered in this chapter, but I was reading a back story written by the devs which said they melted a templar right after their "joining", and they did (temporarily) reconnect Karl to the Fade after he was made Tranquil, so I think I kept it close to cannon.


	6. Chapter Five: Fenris

_The child without a name grew up to be the hand  
To watch you, to shield you or kill on demand  
The choice he'd made he could not comprehend  
His blood a grim secret they had to command_

* * *

If one thing can be said about Anso, he does his job well. Which is a good thing, considering how much the elf employing him doesn't want to be found by his former master. Watching from the shadows as the dwarf interviews the woman suggested to him as the person to pull off this distraction, it takes all of Fenris' strength not to burst out laughing when his middleman pretends to almost jump out of his skin with fear at being approached at night by the small group of two male humans - one a tower of muscles, the other pale and thin in a stained and threadbare coat, an oddly dressed male dwarf, and the small woman. With a smile she tries to reassure Anso, begging his forgiveness for the start, then introducing herself as Hawke. An odd name, that; she is so small and her dark hair gleaming like jet in the moonlight, nothing like the majestic, fiery red-wings he has seen on the hands of nobles in Tevinter. To Fenris, she looks more like a starling, and a half-starved one at that. There is no way she will be able to do what he needs. Yet there is something in her he cannot place, the way she lifts her chin slightly when the leader of the Red Iron is mentioned, suggesting if she could forget being a mercenary she would, and happily. Strength like steel in her straight back, an almost… gravitational pull in the way the others of her party seem drawn to her. Something is off about her, but he does not know what.

Anso wrings his hands, keeping the groups attention on him as he continues to play the nervous weakling. "My apologies, human. I haven't been on the surface very long. I keep thinking I'll fall up into that sky any minute!"

"Bartrand used to be like that. Got jumpy every time he stepped outside."

"I would pay to see that." Both the oddly dressed dwarf and the tower of muscles break into laughter, but the girl does not relax, instead she seems to tense slightly, like a cat preparing to spring on to a mouse, or a deer trying to flee a hunter's trap. He wonders what is bothering her, then sees her eyes slide to the shadows, fixing in his direction for a moment before they flit away, focusing back on the dwarf. She cannot see him, he is too used to hiding. Perhaps she is better at her job than he thinks, or she is paranoid enough to keep an eye at even empty corners. Either will serve well.

"But I digress! I need some help. Rather badly, in fact." The middleman sees her distraction, and moves back to the job. Maker, but the dwarf can  _act_. "Some product of mine has been… misplaced. The men who were supposed to deliver it decided not to. If you retrieve my property, I could reward you handsomely…?"

There is no avarice in her eyes, just cold, calculating precision. She doesn't ask how much - a true professional - but instead skips to the pertinent question: "Just what did these men steal?"

"Did I say steal? I don't know if I would go that far. They seemed like perfectly reasonable smugglers. They smiled and everything! The goods are valuable, however. And illegal. And my client wants them very badly. You know how these templars can be." Fenris feels his stomach clench. This is the test. Any mage should run at the word 'templars', and Maker knows he doesn't want the help of any of their kind, while the typical criminal element found in any city should be more worried about the value of such a recovery.

"You're smuggling lyrium." Cold, calculating precision; no fear, no running, not from her at least, though the dwarf in her party does make a muttered comment about the dangers of "the Chantry, the Carta, and the Coterie." She looks at the two male humans, giving them each a slight nod, staring into the eyes of the pale one for a long moment before he nods back, and the hidden elf feels his stomach relax. "We'll get it back for you." Her eyes flicker back to the shadows as Anso gives them directions, and for a moment he thinks she is staring him down. But then she shrugs, as is if dismissing him as a figment of her imagination. He waits until he no longer hears their feet echoing off the paving stones to remove himself from the shadows.

"Do you think they'll find anything?" Anso asks, all hint of his acted fear gone from his voice and posture.

"I don't know. But it doesn't matter; they will do their part." The woman's eyes still haunt his mind, and he suddenly knows what the something is that he could not name. She is one who does not give up.

* * *

"Someone was hiding in the shadows, watching us," I tell the others as we head toward the alienage, keeping my voice low so no one but them will be able to hear it over the whistle of the night wind blowing through the narrow alleyways.

"Templar?" Carver asks, giving me a narrowed eye, but I shake my head.

"No. It didn't  _sound_ like a templar."

Varric looks up at me, a half-smirk on his face. "How do you know what templars  _sound_ like hiding in shadows from across the market?"

"I've been hiding from them since the day I was born; it helps to know when one is on your trail or right around the corner. This person was angry when the lyrium was mentioned, but not angry it's been stolen from them, more like it's been forced to be part of them, burning in them…" Anders is looking at me now, and I shrug. This is hard to explain at the best of times, and walking down the road in the middle of the night probably won't make it sound any better. "Papa called me  _Lamentari_. It means that I…  _hear_  things, for lack of a better word."

"You don't mean you read minds do you?" I have to laugh at Varric's question, at the look on his face. He thinks it's exciting, which makes me happy. Usually people start running at this point.

"No, I don't read minds; only maleficarum can do that, and that's only if they force you to tell them what you're thinking with blood magic. I  _hear_  what people feel; whether they're angry, or sad, especially when they're in pain. Things can get… confusing." I don't want to talk about it anymore, don't want to explain what else this means, and I pray that Carver doesn't volunteer any information about it. Not that he knows all that much; beyond the bare essentials needed to keep them safe, our father never explained the truth about what I am to the rest of our family.

" _Lamentari_ ," Anders tastes the word, tilting his head slightly as he looks at me, and I see the blue glow of Justice flickering behind his eyes. "That sounds like Arcanum."

"It is. Our father was Circle trained, well educated." For once Carver comes to my rescue, and I give him a nod of thanks. "Look, if you two want to talk magic, save it for later. I want to get this job done and go home."

"You mean go to the Blooming Rose and see Faith," Varric corrects him, and I look at my younger brother, horrified to see the blush crawling up his neck.

"Carver! What would Mother say?"

He shoots me back a glare, one of those 'for the love of the Maker, Sister, mind your own business' looks he has perfected to an art. "Nothing. I'm not like you, having to be kept in a box on a shelf until she finds me a match." I raise my hands in surrender, and we all fall silent as we round the last two corners to the alienage. White stone gleams in the moonlight and I feel something creeping up my spine as I stop at the top of the stairs,  _listening_  with all my strength.

"Should it be this quiet?" Varric whispers under his breath, removing Bianca from his back and loading a bolt nervously.

"I don't  _hear_  anything," I tell him. "And that bothers me. I second Carver: let's get the lyrium and get out of here."

* * *

Fenris listens to the sounds of battle coming from the alienage, smiling to himself as the group of Tevinter mercenaries hiding behind a low wall beneath the ledge he haunts become more and more distracted, mumbling amongst themselves, shifting nervously as they wait for the signal to leave their place of concealment and rush the adventurers Anso hired for him. Four other groups were similarly placed at even intervals, but they have already been taken care of, their corpses cooling in the chill night air. The roar of a fireball exploding brings their heads up, and he uses the distraction to drop behind them, a silent shadow in the night, bringing up his great sword in both hands to sever the heads of three of the men in one swing. Another is felled, two messy pieces of meat falling to stain the once pristine stone. He takes aim at the final mercenary, but the man is too quick, dodging his blow as he raises the blade again, lunging after the fleeing figure. Discarding the heavy sword, he tackles the man, punching him hard in the throat to cut off his shout, then digging the sharpened talons of his gauntlet into the mercenary's thigh, severing the artery and watching for a moment as the blood spurts into the air.

Behind him the elf hears the sounds of battle cease, then the voice of the Tevinter commander raised in anger as he shouts down at the adventurers. How many have survived the ambush? He is surprised at his own fear for the starling girl. "I don't know who you are, friend, but you've made a serious mistake coming here. Lieutenant! I want everyone in the clearing! Now!" The man beneath him gurgles weakly, and he decides to change tactics, letting the dying mercenary up from the ground, watching from the shadows as he weaves unsteadily towards his captain, blood leaking in ever slower drops from the mortal wound in his thigh.

"Captain…" the man manages one word, then falls down the stairs to land at the lone surviving mercenary's feet, dead before he hit's the ground.

Smothering a smile at the look of sheer panic on the commander's face, Fenris steps from his hiding place, striding down to look over his group of hirelings. They have all survived. Surprising, but not as surprising as the surge of relief that flows through him when he sees the amethyst eyes of Hawke glowing in the low light. "Your men are dead. And your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you still can." The elf stops in front of the girl, looking down at her, surprised at how much smaller she seems this close. No, definitely not a hawk, no matter how she is named. Something flashes in her eyes, a warning, he thinks, just before the mercenary's heavy hand closes tightly on his shoulder.

"You're going nowhere, slave." Anger surges in his blood, and with the anger comes power as he spins around, blue light surrounding his body as he punches his hand through the other man's chest, crushing his heart in his hand before letting the body fall to the ground.

"I am not a slave," Fenris hisses at the corpse, then turns back to the others, both the blue glow and his anger fading as he sees the intense look on Hawke's face, the prepared staff in her hand, wickedly sharp blade pointed at him in a stance that says, all to clearly  _try and hurt my friends, and you will die where you stand, even if it costs me my life_. She is  _brave_ , this little starling. "I apologize," the elf tells her hurriedly, relaxing his own aggressive stance to one of guarded neutrality, hands held away from his sides, though he would never truly be unarmed. "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they'd be so… numerous."

An angry snort rips from the tower of muscles behind her. "You were responsible for this?"

Nodding, Hawke turns slightly, giving Fenris a look before she relaxes her grip on the staff, bringing it down to her side. "He was the one I could hear in the shadows."

Surprised, he arches an eyebrow. So she did know he was there; he must be getting sloppy. "My name is Fenris. These men were Imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister's lost property, namely myself. They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely."

"If you couldn't fight them, why not just run?" The elf eyes the skinny blonde man who asks this, noticing the woman's eyes narrow on the question. Yes, the pale man does seem the kind to run rather than fight, even if he does stand with a woman who radiates courage.

"There must come a time when you must stop running, when you turn and face the tiger."

"That seems like a lot of effort to find one slave."

 _Maker, but what a coward_ , he thinks at the newest accusation from the pale weakling, then sees how the man's eyes linger on the back of Hawke's head. Almost… protective? They do not stand together as a mated pair, and their body language suggests that such a connection is far out of reach for either one. Odd then that he guards her as one would a brood mare. Perhaps he has misjudged her ability to get the job done. "It is."

"Does that have something to do with those markings?" Then again, perhaps not. She certainly has a way of focusing on the important, winnowing it away from the chaff of words floating in the air like dust motes stirred by a rising wind.

Fenris nods, following her gaze as he raises his arms so she can see the brands flowing across his dark skin. "Yes. I imagine I must look strange to you. I did not receive these markings by choice. Even so, they have served me well. Without them, I would still be a slave."

Whetting her lips with her small pink tongue, she seems almost to taste the air around him, the way a lizard senses for threats… or food. "If they were really trying to recapture you, then I'm happy we helped."

"I have met few in my travels who have sought more than personal gain." He should stop there, ask no more, but curiosity and - dare he admit it - hope, drive him to one last question. "If I may ask: what was in the chest? The one they kept in the house?"

"It was empty."

"I suppose it was too much to hope for. Even so, I had to know."

Is he imagining it, or do her amethyst eyes grow darker as his hope fades, his own well hidden pain reflecting back to him from those dark, bottomless pools? "You were expecting something else."

Not a question -  _so she does know_  - and he will not offer denials or lies in answer. "I was, but I shouldn't have. It was bait, nothing more."

"You didn't need to lie to get my help." A definite reprimand that, but gentle, more as if she is angry at him for doubting her honor than putting herself or her friends in danger without their consent.

 _Honor, as if such a thing could exist amongst mercenaries and thieves. She has a high opinion of herself, this one._  "That remains to be seen. I overheard these men talking earlier; my former master accompanied them to the city. I know you have questions, but I must confront him before he flees. I will need your help."

Hawke crosses her arms over her chest, staring him down with those shimmering violet eyes. "It sounds like you intend to do more than just talk."

"Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones and has sent so many hunters that I have lost count. And before that he kept me on a leash like a Qunari mage, a personal pet to mock Qunari custom." Venom floods his words, poisoning his mouth with the bitter taste of hate. If she does not understand this, then she can go to the Void, but he will not live with a tiger at his back. "So, yes, I intend to do more than just talk."

The woman doesn't even hesitate, doesn't even think. "If it means fighting more slavers, I'll help you."

Pressing a hand to his heart, Fenris bows. "I will find a way to repay you. I swear it."

* * *

_The curse of his powers tormented his life  
Obeying the crown was a sinister price  
His soul was tortured by love and by pain  
He surely would flee but the oath made him stay_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Standard "I own nothing" disclaimer. Lyrics from "Hand of Sorrow" by Within Temptation. Thank you to everyone who has left a review, added this story (or me) as a favorite, or set it to alert. Special thanks goes to my lil sis Amanda Kitswell for all the brainstorming for this story. More special thanks to my twin and bestest friend in the whole universe, Chris, who patiently listens to me rant about how much I hate writing Fenris ("I mean Fenris makes Sion from TSL look like Pollyanna!") , how the game suddenly makes no sense because how did Fenris find out from a note in a mercenary's pocket that Danarius was in town if he CAN'T BLOODY READ, and then endures a completely serious conversation that includes me saying things like "You are so evil, but I love you", "Now that we've gotten past that awkward bit, we can get back to the ritual dismemberments? Oh wait, it isn't Tuesday", and "Just tell me when the virgin sacrifices are scheduled so I can hide."
> 
> Please R&R, and if anyone knows Latin well enough to tell me I seriously screwed up the one word I tried to figure out, please let me know. I only speak English and Spanish (much to the horror of my Italian ancestors, I'm certain).


	7. Chapter Six: Blood Magic

_Search for the answers I knew all along  
I lost myself, we all fall down  
Never the wiser of what I've become  
Alone I stand a broken man_

* * *

"Danarius may know we're here. I wouldn't put it past him."

Anders stares at the escaped slave, watching him for any sign of danger, either towards himself of the young woman leading their merry band of misfits. For someone who has been Hawke's companion a grand total of three days, he is much too possessive about her, he knows, but he can't help feel other than personally responsible for her safety, especially after the way she had comforted him after… Karl. "I could stand to know a little more about this Danarius." Her brother is glaring at him, eyes flashing from his stance with the elf to his sister's new clothes, something that looks like one of their mother's old dresses, re-stitched to fit under her hastily patched chain, still slightly stained with blood from the wound she had received on his behalf. _You're right, if I'm really trying to be protective, maybe next time I can try_ not _taking her into a Chantry full of Templars in the middle of the night?_

"He is a magister of the Tevinter Imperium."

"Oh is that all? Nothing to worry about, then." He grits his teeth at Varric's sarcasm, trying to hush the voice of rage building in his head. Something is wrong with Hawke, he can tell, even though she is trying to cover it up with her usual air of impersonal professionalism it doesn't quite manage to hide the subtle signs of fear in her dark eyes and her too-even breathing.

"He may have prepared some magical defenses." Hawke states, turning back to the other men, her posture straight, eyes empty and cold, face blank. She is in control, everything hidden from them.  _Well, not me. What are you hiding, girl?_

Fenris shakes his shoulders back proudly, marching towards the door. "They will not keep me from him."

* * *

"Maker man, did no one ever teach you  _not_ to announce to a very powerful mage that you're coming to kill them?" Normally, Anders' muttered comment at the elf's wild shout of challenge would have a smile trying to blossom on my face, but right now I can't even risk the little bit of emotional leak that is jocularity right now. Calm, cold, collected; the mask I have worn so many times must become reality. There can be no fear, no anger, not even love or hope must touch me, not in this place, whispering the sound of suffering somewhere deep within. I  _must_  be strong, I  _must_ keep control.

Weapons at the ready we stumble from room to room, finding no guards, no residents, not even any corpses, just vast, empty rooms looking like someone left in a rush, not even bothering to clean the food from their plates. "I don't like this, Sister," Carver whispers to me, holding his heavy sword straight in front of us as he nudges another door open, leading to a short hallway. "Surely we should have found something by now."

"We should have," I agree, when something catches my attention and I snap my head around to stare at the door blocking the other end of the hallway. It's so low I can barely hear it, like something is trying to cover it up, to hide what is waiting behind the door, but nothing can completely stop me from hearing that. Fenris shoves the door open and rushes through it, the other men on his heels. "Wait, don't!" I cry, but they are through, heading straight towards the trap set waiting for the returning slave.  _No, no Maker please…_ Down the hall I sprint, into grand room with sweeping stairs and high ceiling, hoping against all hope I am wrong, but knowing I never get that kind of luck.

"Danarius!" Fenris roars his master's name as he takes in the scene of glyphs traced in blood at equal distances around the room; his rage echoes through the chamber, bouncing against the walls, ricocheting directly at where I stand.  _I must be strong, I must be strong, I must not hear it…_ This trap was not set for me, it was set for him, and I wonder what the magister will think when finds out exactly what he has caught in his snare. But then again he may never know, for the agony of the blood magic drops me to my knees just as the first of the rage demons begins to boil from the floor.

My lungs won't fully inflate, my ribs aching like someone is squeezing them tightly in a giant fist, but I force my head up to watch as the others battle both shades and demons through the crimson haze that nearly blinds me. A short shape that must be Varric is to one side, showering the creatures with bolts from Bianca, while Carver and Fenris appear like silvery blurs to me, their massive swords hacking at the summoned monstrosities, desperately trying to clear the room, but for every one they bring down another springs up to replace. Four rage demons now blister the air with their heat; I can taste their mindless desire for possession of a living mage, their frantic need to be within my skin. How easy it will be for them, with me bound by he scream of the blood magic; some part of my mind that thinks strange and irreverent things at the worst of times wonders how they will decide which will turn me into an abomination.

Like a breath of life, healing magic crackles across my skin, trying to scrub the anguish away from my mind and soul. Looking up, my eyes find Anders' through the blood fog smothering me, trying to make out the words on his lips - a question? a demand? a plea? - when his deep brown gaze fills my vision, chasing away the scarlet miasma. In that second I hear the rage screamed by the creature both man and spirit in the Chantry echo through both of us, pushing away the harsh agony attracting the demons to me - and instead they move to attack him. _Look_ , I want to shout.  _Look at the demons, stop looking at me_. But we are both ensorcelled, and something within me snaps. I don't know how, but I am on my feet, the space around me boiling with magic as I gather all the pain screaming through the room into me, drawing it up my body and out my hands in a shower of ice. "You will not have him!" Snarls tear at my throat, but I don't hear them, all I feel is rage, pain, I am unaware of my movements, what spells I cast. The only thing I know is that the demons will not touch my fellow mage, that nothing within my being will allow that. On the walls, the glyphs burst into flame one by one as the shades and demons are cut down, either by our magic, or the more mortal swords and crossbow carried wielded by the others.

When the final spirit falls, I lean on my staff to catch my breath, pushing back against the faint echoes of pain sounding through the mansion until they are silenced. Giving me dark look, Fenris goes through the three rooms at the top of the stairs, growling louder and louder as he finds each one without a living soul within them. Muttering something about needing some air, he heads for the exit, but not before giving me one more glance of contempt. "Sister?" Carver's voice breaks through my exhaustion and I look up at him, my chest still tight like I'm caught in something. "No warning about the blood magic?"

"Not enough; it was… hidden somehow. The magister must be powerful indeed to be able to cover up, well, that." I nod to the marks on the walls where I had burned off the glyphs with my rage. My brother looks at them for a moment, then nods.  _At least you didn't kill any of us_ , I can almost read his thoughts, but he knows better than to speak them out loud. Just as I know better than to dismiss what I just did.

"Can you walk?" Anders interrupts, holding out a hand with another offer of healing magic.

Shrinking back from the touch, not looking at him I nod. "I'm fine. Let's go check on our elven friend, shall we?" The sooner I can get out of here, get somewhere where I am alone, the better I will feel.

* * *

He stands outside the mansion, looking up at the sky, cursing himself for a fool. How could he be so blind? No wonder the little starling has the bravery of a raptor: with magic at her command, she need never fear the eagle seeking her for a meal, nor the hunter seeking her for feathers. Indeed, the only true threat to her comes from within, from the demons hiding in the shadowed heart he can see in her eyes.  _Better to fear the eagle, or the hunter, for how do you fight yourself?_ Soft steps sound beside him, and he knows she and the men who follow in her wake have found him, seeking some explanation for what has gone one this night. "It never ends. I escaped a land of dark magic to have it haunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. And now I find myself in the company of yet another mage." Angrily, he crosses to Hawke, pointing an accusing finger in her face. "I saw you casting spells inside. I should have realized sooner what you really were. Tell me then: what manner of mage are you? What is it that you seek?"

The heavily muscled man with Hawke's same black hair steps forward, one hand reaching back towards the heavy sword slung across his broad shoulders. "If you've got a problem with my sister, you've got a problem with me."

Something lights in her eyes, like she is surprised to see him standing up for her. No, theirs has not seemed like a close sibling relationship, indeed until this moment, Fenris hadn't even realized they are brother and sister. "I'm not seeking anything." Hawke replies, resting her hand on the boy's arm. "Just trying to feed my family."

"Yet danger will undoubtedly find you."

"Hawke isn't the only mage around here." Ah, he wondered when the pale one would resume trying to protect her as if she is his own personal plaything. A coward and a mage, how typical; here is one that has none of the starling's strength or fight. "And we did just save your bloody hide from a horde of shades and demons in there, so show some respect."

Still, they are right. She has helped him despite the danger, without ever making him feel like he is less than she because he was once a slave. "I imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth. I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt. Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised." Handing her the pouch, he starts slightly when their fingers brush. Her touch is… beyond description. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to stay by her side. "Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it."

"You didn't seem all that thrilled with me a moment ago." Curiosity, not accusation. Remarkable, how accepting of life's vicissitudes this little bird is. Perhaps that is for the best though; how does one fly in the right direction, if not by knowing how to adjust when the wind changes course?

"You are not Danarius. Whether or not you are anything like him remains to be seen."

"Do you think your master will keep chasing you?"

"He is too proud not to. Perhaps one day the hunt will cost him more than he is willing to pay, but I doubt that matters any longer."

Her eyes are clear and crystal bright as she raises her head to look straight at him, the dim lamplight reflecting off her pale cheeks. "Should that day come, he will find me at your side. I don't abandon my friends. Ever."

* * *

_Swallow me under and pull me apart  
I understand there's nothing left  
Pain so familiar and close to the heart  
No more, no less, I won't forget_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Lyrics from "Without You" by Breaking Benjamin. Thanks to my lil sis Amanda Kitswell for being an awesome first reader / beta and for yelling at me to work on this, and then yelling at me again when I complain about how much I hate what I'm writing because IT'S CRAP! Not so much thanks to her for being plot bunny breeder / trainer extraordinaire, which causes me to be constantly sidetracked by new ideas.


	8. Chapter Seven: Broken Wings

_I'm not a stranger  
No, I am yours  
With crippled anger  
And tears that still drip sore_

_A fragile frame aged  
With misery  
And when our eyes meet  
I know you see_

* * *

"I shit you not, Rivaini, it was this big." Varric raises his arms to suggest some obscene length, grinning at the pirate woman as she chokes on her whiskey and stares at him.

"There's no way. Impossible! I've had hundreds of those in my hands, and they're  _never_  that size."

Anders raises an eyebrow at their innuendo-laden conversation as he sips at his own mug of sour ale, the same mug he has been nursing since they returned from Hightown, the dwarven storyteller hustling their new mage-hating elven companion into the Hanged Man for a drink to meet Isabela and Aveline, more members of Hawke's ragtag bunch of followers, dragging him along in their wake. Her younger brother somehow managed to disappear into the night, and the healer doesn't doubt the boy will end up in his clinic looking for a salve to treat an unwanted "gift" from one of the girls at the Blooming Rose someday soon. Speaking of Hawke…

Hunched over one of the tiny two-person tables beside the fire in the main room, she ignores the chatter of everyone around her, black hair half covering her face, an untouched glass of cider the focus of her empty gaze almost as if she is using it to scry for an answer to some question he can almost hear on the edge of his awareness. Suddenly, as if coming to a decision she jumps to her feet, draining the cider before tossing a coin on the table for Norah the serving girl, her eyes still looking into a world beyond the physical.

"Not leaving already, are you?" Isabela calls out from her seat, tossing a large nut from the bowl beside her elbow at the young mage so it bounces off the middle of her back. "The fun hasn't even started yet!"

"Things to do," the girl replies in a distracted voice, not bothering to look at anyone before heading towards the door and slipping out into the street.

A frown creases Varric's face, and he glances at the guardswoman, who nods and stands, starting to buckle her sword back on to her hip. "Going hawking then?" the pirate quips to Aveline, taking another deep draught of whiskey. "Don't you ever take a night off big girl?"

"If you went instead of sitting here, whore, I'd be able to."

Raising an eyebrow, Anders places a hand out to catch their attention. "Hawking?"

"Our little bird's got trouble after her, according to my contacts. Doesn't do any good warning her, because she never listens. Sometimes I don't think she cares if anything happens to her so long as nothing happens to anyone else. People like that make great heroes, but not if they're dead." Sighing, Varric snatches a handful of nuts, breaking the shells apart with quick stabs of his dagger. "So we take turns making sure that trouble doesn't get near enough to ruffle her feathers."

Something heavy and hard settles in his stomach, and he shifts his hand to stop the guard from finishing with her sword belt, instead clenching his staff tightly in his hand. "Take a night off, Aveline. I'm used to pulling birds from the cat's maw. Pounce always liked to try bringing me presents that weren't quite dead. Good healing practice though; broken wings are buggers to set right."

* * *

If my father were still alive, I don't know what he'd think. Part of my problem since we came to Kirkwall, besides the blatantly obvious facts that I'm an apostate in the only city with as many templars as Val Royeaux and trying to live with the responsibility of keeping Mother and Carver alive when I've already failed to do the same for the rest of our family, has been wondering what Papa would think of me, my decisions, my actions, the way my life is changing. I've been so careful, so terribly,  _terribly_  careful the last four years, but now, it one night, in one _moment_ ,I feel like all my control is gone. In Lothering it was easier; even if he wasn't there I could still feel my father around me, his emotions, his essence soaked into the house and land he loved and worked so hard for. The home three rogue mages were never supposed to have, let alone keep for ten years.

Now I have no home - no empty fields still ringing with Papa's laughter, or shaded stream bank hidden from the road by towering rocks still echoing with hints of songs hummed under his breath while he taught me to channel the raging tempest always threatening to explode from me.

So this is where I come, to a desolate cove on the Wounded Coast, accessible only by a narrow path down a steep cliff hidden from sight by a large bush that I manage to get under by benefit of being so small. Golden light from the full harvest moon bleaches the sand bone white, the early autumn wind just slightly chilly as it blows across my skin. Stabbing the blade of my staff into the soft ground, I pile driftwood into the low stone circle I built for occasions like this, making a neat cone of sticks interspersed with dried seaweed and scrub grass for tinder.

Closing my eyes, I  _hear_  the rage from the demons in the circle of blood magic, taste it as the emotion broke through walls constructed over years and decades to separate that part of myself. Large, strong, and white-hot, a fireball forms between my hands; I hold it there, driving all the emotions I can into it, purging myself with the flames before I throw the ball into the prepared pit, igniting the cone of wood on contact. It's still not enough, and I curl my legs beneath me, feeling the cold sand on my skin through the thin cloth of my pants as I kneel down, hands fumbling at the small of my back for the dagger I carry there, grasping the handle tightly in my right hand as I draw up the sleeve of my left arm with my teeth. It has been years since I've needed to do this, needed to focus myself this way, but after tonight, I have no choice. There must be no chance of slippage again.

With short, quick movements, I reopen old wounds, freshen old scars. Copper and salt fill my nose as blood drips onto the sand but I ignore the smell, savoring the sensation as I lean back against the cliff face, closing my eyes as I focus only on the pain,  _my_ pain, something I know comes from no one but me. No whispers, no screams, no laughter, no hummed songs, just me and the silence of my own mind, the agony that tells me exactly where the boundaries  _must_ remain.

 **"Foul sorceress! You will die for this atrocity!"** With a jerk, I am pulled from the ground by a strong hand around my throat, closing into a fist as it tries to choke the life from me. My eyes fly open, and for a moment I am blinded by a blue light, unable to recognize the person strangling me, but then I understand: Anders, or rather Justice, must have seen me with the knife and jumped to the logical conclusion - blood magic. I open my mouth, trying to speak, but I can't manage to make a noise past the constriction on my windpipe.  **"What demon do you bargain with? Tell me its name!"**

"I… it's…" the words tear my throat, but I force them out anyway. I don't know why I'm arguing; wouldn't it be better for him just to kill me and get it over with? No more struggles, no more trying to stay in control. No more worrying about when I might slip. "Not… blood magic…" Stars burst in my vision, lights exploding into darkness, and I reach up to touch the hand ending my life, curling my fingers around the wrist as I feel my body go limp.  _I just didn't want to hurt anyone else…_ Out of the darkness covering me over, I hear a thump as I drop back to the sand, the writhing of someone close by seeking to gain control over the monster inside; oh, how well I know that sensation.

The last thing that enters my mind before I just give in is the feeling of much gentler arms cradling me against something soft and warm. "Hawke! Oh, Maker, what have I done?"

* * *

"I… it's… not… blood magic…"  _Lies!_ roars the demon of Vengeance  _they_  have become, squeezing  _their_  hand even tighter around the small neck. It is maleficarum like  _her_ , those that play with demons as if they are harmless toys, that make the templars so afraid of every mage.  _She is the sort that causes the needless suffering of innocents!_  The rage is uncontrollable; she'd almost had  _them_  convinced she was different, that she shared  _their_  desire to help all mages be free. Weakly, one hand curls around  _their_  wrist as she struggles down another breath, her flesh cold against  _their_  hot skin.  _I just didn't want to hurt anyone else…_

 _No! Innocent!_ Inside his own head, Anders is screaming, pushing the spirit back as he retakes control of his body, collapsing on the beach as he struggles to regain use of his limbs and mind, thrashing in agony until he is in command of himself. With a surge of fear, he crawls to where the girl lays limp beside the fire, blood from the wounds in her arm soaking into the sand. Even as the mage gathers her against his chest he can feel the life ebbing from her body, slipping towards the Fade and the realm beyond even that. "Hawke! Oh, Maker, what have I done?" Blue lips, no rise and fall of her chest, eyes glazed over like a corpse, the black bruises standing out like corruptions on the white column of her neck. Black bruises from his hand… But he can still sense the barest flicker of her soul struggling to stay within the dying body, and he refuses to just let go. Placing one hand on the swollen throat and the other dead center on her chest, he focuses with all his might, pushing both his magic and Justice's strength into the inanimate figure. "Dammit Hawke, not yet!" he snarls when she doesn't respond, pushing even harder, willing to push every bit of his own life into her if he has to. "Not yet!"

The gasp that tears from her as the magic finally allows her to breath again makes her whole body shake, and then she is sobbing for breath through her aching throat, but at least she is alive. Pulling a lyrium potion from his pouch, he drinks it down before turning back to Hawke, pulling off his coat to bunch under her head to ease the flow of air into her lungs. Wet brushes against his fingers as he adjusts the makeshift pillow, and he remembers the wounds on her arm. But when he lifts the pliant limb to examine the injury, he is not expecting to see words carved into her skin.  _I just didn't want to hurt anyone else…_ Broken wings are good healing practice, didn't he tell Varric? Well, looks like he's about to get more than he bargained for.

* * *

When I wake, the colors of dawn stain the sky as the wind whips across my face, but while I should be shivering from sleeping on the beach with only my small fire for warmth, I'm not cold at all, and said fire, which should have burned its self out by now, is crackling merrily nearby, freshly fed with more driftwood by the looks of it. My throat feels raw, and suddenly I remember the night before, the cry in the darkness after Justice stopped trying to strangle me. Hand shooting to my neck I jerk upright, only to be held tight by a restraining band around my waist, and I blush to realize that I have been sleeping with my head pillowed on Anders' chest, wrapped in his tattered but undoubtedly warm blue quilted coat. "Easy," he tells me, keeping one arm around my waist to hold me in place while he digs through a pack with the other. "You've been unconscious for hours. Let's take it slow, shall we? Drink this, it will help with the soreness and swelling."

My hands are shaking, oddly numb, but I manage to wrap them both around the bottle of elfroot potion, taking slow sips that do ease the ache. When I can finally speak, I turn my head slightly to look at him, my vision blurry and slightly gritty from ending up face-first in the sand a few too many times last night. "Are you alright?"

"Maker, girl, am  _I_ alright? I almost killed you last night and you're worried about me!" He shakes his head, giving me a wide brown-eyed stare.

I take another sip of the potion, staring right back at him, tilting my own head to the side to get a better look at his face. Somehow, I doubt Anders got any sleep last night; the dark circles under his eyes suggest that, beyond trying to heal my injuries and keeping the fire going, he's been flogging himself over what happened. "I don't think that would have been an over reaction had I been using blood magic. And this is nothing worse than anything I've been through before - I was very clumsy as a child - so, yes, I'm worried about you. You did what was right to defend yourself and others from dangerous magic, but seem to think you did something terrible."

Sharply, he stands, roughly pushing me off his chest and onto the sand as he strides several lengths away. "I did do something terrible, I lost control of myself and almost  _murdered_ you! For no reason! How is that hard to understand? Andraste's knickers, you can't be this stupid!"

I feel my fists clenching at my side, and I push off his coat, forcing myself to my feet to stare him in the face. "There were plenty of reasons; if you'd see the truth, you'd know better. Until then, don't judge what you don't understand."  _Do not get angry_ , I tell myself.  _You're still too close._ I turn around to grab my staff out of the sand, but his hand grips my arm.

A hiss escapes my lips as his palm closes over the scars I reopened the night before; Anders spins me around, looking deep into my eyes as he pushes up my sleeve, then traces his fingers over the words carved in the skin.  **Never again. Never again. Never again.** Three times the words repeat, mirroring the ancient superstition that wishes whispered thrice under a full moon have special magic, and will always be granted. "What is this?" he asks me, forcing me to keep our gazes connected, not letting me look away, to confabulate some answer that will sound less horrible than the truth. "Why did you do this to yourself?"

"You know how I told you I  _hear_ emotions? That I'm  _Lamentari_? Well, blood magic and I don't get along," I finally tell him, hugging myself with my free arm. "Do you ever think about how much pain goes into blood magic? Especially Tevinter blood magic, where the victims are killed? It's… deafening; I don't hear anything else, not the people around me, not the Fade, not even my own thoughts or feelings. Times like that I have to stay… focused." Anders opens his mouth to say something, but this is my confession, and I push my finger hard into his chest to stop him. "When you tried to heal me in that mansion, you broke my focus while blood magic was working on me. I lost control, I could have killed everyone in that room, not just the demons. Done it before; I was born a monster."

I turn away, moving back to gather my things from beside the fire, but his voice catches me, freezing me from moving forward. "Who did you kill?"

"My father; I was sixteen. You can't deafen  _Lamentari_ without making them Tranquil; our emotions are too bound up with those around us. My mother wouldn't let me go to the Circle, so I did the only thing I could think of. I marked myself to remember what happens when I'm not strong enough. Up till yesterday, it worked." A sigh escapes me, and I sit down beside the fire, looking up at the other mage for a moment. "Look, I'm sorry things always end up so weighty between us. The fact is, the few times we've been around each other that hasn't involved us talking about killing people we love, I've enjoyed. I just want you to know, whatever you want to talk about, I won't judge. You can tell me anything."

Half a smile quirks his lips as he sits beside me, picking his coat up from the sand and brushing it off before settling it back over his shoulders. "Anything? Be careful what you offer." Anders' smile vanishes as he pokes at the fire with a sick, and I finish the elfroot potion as I wait for him to collect his thoughts. "With Justice and me… I didn't know what would happen. I figured a willing host, a friend… it had to be better than playing the demon and haunting some corpse."

Tentatively, I reach out my hand, resting it on his arm nearest me. "It must have been hard for him, being trapped outside the Fade. In a place where no one's like him. I bet he appreciated having a friend. And, well, he can't complain about his looks with you."  _Maker, Ebony, what's wrong with you? You've never said anything like that before in your life, to anyone!_

For a moment, he just sits there frozen, my hand on his arm, then he gently reaches up and pushes it off, turning to look at me with so much sadness echoing between us that it takes my breath away. "No. Don't go there. That's not going to end well. I don't want to hurt you again."

"You won't, I can feel it. We're too much alike; we learn from our weaknesses." Catching his eyes, I lock my gaze with his. "You won't ever let Justice touch me again. I trust you."

"We are the same; the man in the Chantry who killed all those templars, the  _monster_  that almost murdered you last night, that's who I am."

Sand flies out of my hair as I shake my head. "Anders…"

Holding up a hand, he stops me before turning his eyes to stare out at the ocean. "Don't. A year ago, maybe we could have had something. But I'm not that man anymore; I'm not a man any woman should be near. I'll break your heart. And that might kill me as surely as the templars."

"You don't know me very well," I tell him as I stand up for the last time, brushing the sand from my clothes before I retrieve my staff. "All I've ever had is a broken heart."

* * *

_I may seem crazy  
Or painfully shy  
And these scars wouldn't be so hidden  
If you would just look me in the eye  
I feel alone here and cold here  
Though I don't want to die  
But the only anesthetic that makes me feel anything kills inside_

_I do not want to be afraid  
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in  
I'm tired of feeling so numb  
Relief exists I find it when  
I am cut_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Lyrics from "Cut" by Plumb. Many thanks to my first reader / sounding board / beta AmandaKitswell, who gets to put up with the spelling mistakes that come with the fact that I now have two partially paralyzed hands instead of one (including the fact I called Anders a willing hose instead of a willing host), and who also sends me amazing music to listen to while I write.


	9. Chapter Eight: Visions in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: This chapter contains references and images of rape. Reader discretion advised.

_Why was I one of the chosen ones?  
Until the fight I could not see  
The magic and the strength of my power  
It was beyond my wildest dreams  
_

* * *

"People have described broodmothers to me, but words don't do them justice." Anders shuddered with the memory as he followed the Warden-Commander into her office within the Keep, still rubbing at his hands to try and get the lingering bit of dried darkspawn blood off them from their trip to Kal'Hirol. "I'm still scared. Hold me?" Hekate didn't say anything in reply, which bothered him more than the memory of the swollen, deformed body of the dwarven woman (after all, those were the first naked breasts he'd seen since joining the Wardens); she'd never been one not to laugh at his jokes, or come up with a her own witty repartee in response to bait others hadn't even realized they were providing.

Instead, the young mage sat down behind her desk, forgoing both food and bath as she stared out the window in the direction of the setting sun, her face empty of all emotion, all the radiant humour he associated with his oldest friend. " _First day, they come and catch everyone. Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat. Third day, the men are all gnawed on again. Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate. Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn. Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams. Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew. Eighth day, we hated as she is violated. Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin. Now she does feast, as she's become the beast_." Whispered under her breath, the poem sent a cold chill up his spine. He had no idea where she got them from, but they echoed in his head like a funeral dirge, drawing him over to stand beside the other Grey Warden mage.

"What was that?"

"When we were in the Deep Roads, seeking aid from Orzamar during the Blight, Alistair, Oghren and I came across a half-mad dwarven woman who had once been on of the Paragon Branka's lieutenants on her search for the Anvil of the Void. She told us how the broodmothers are created." Hekate stood up from the chair, pushing herself closer to the window so her face was completely bathed in the fading rays of sunlight. "Darkspawn take women, imprison them, torture them, corrupt them and… violate them, until they become something more than ghouls, but still much less than what they were. Finally, they feed their dead to these poor souls, and the result? More darkspawn. Ironic though; that may be the only way I can ever have children, since, according to Alistair, the taint makes it so hard for us to conceive."

"Hex…"

"Promise me something, Anders?" Turning around to look at him, she gave him one of her rare, serious-as-it-gets looks, violet eyes gleaming from within the shadows of her gore-streaked face. "If there ever comes a time when you're with a woman and the darkspawn try to take her - me, Sigrun, another Warden, anyone - swear, you'll kill me, or them, before there's even a chance of a new broodmother."

Pressing his clenched fist over his chest, he nodded. "I swear."

* * *

_Her screams we hear in our dreams…_

They had been hunting them for days now, the darkspawn, and the small party is exhausted from running, their number whittled down by wave after wave of the foul creatures breaking against them whenever a rest must be taken. Bartrand, Bodahn, Sandal, indeed all the dwarves but Varric were dead, all the guards but the two Ferelden refugees already carried off into the dank side passages by monsters. Depending on the small remnant of stone-sense still flowing in his blood, the merchant prince finds a small chamber with an easily sealed door, covering his companions as they flee into it, Carver and Fenris supporting a drained and blood-spattered Hawke between them.

"Safe a place as any for the night." the younger human asks, leaning his sister against the wall before helping the elf shove the heavy door closed with all the waning strength their exhausted muscles can provide. "Thought the Deep Roads were supposed to be almost empty after a Blight, Tethras."

"It is. Damn, I wish Blondie was here; he could have put those Grey Warden senses to use and told us where the blighted darkspawn were, so we weren't!"

Hawke's voice is soft, strained when she speaks; an obvious struggle just to open her mouth. She has overcast herself time and again healing the others or sending out bursts of fire and ice at their attackers, but now they are out of lyrium potions, and she doesn't have the strength to heal herself without sleep and food. "You know he wouldn't ever go into the Deep Roads again; he was adamant on that from the first."

"I have seen the way the abomination looks at you," Fenris replies with a slight sneer, obviously directed at the topic of conversation and not the mage before him, as he shakes a blanket out from his pack to lay on the ground for his own bed. "No doubt you could have influenced him to decide differently."

"Watch how you talk to my sister!" Carver snaps back, wrapping an arm around her as she totters slightly on her seat, then gently draws her down to rest a head on his lap.

Hawke's eyes are closed, but she is not quite asleep enough to fail to reply. "It wouldn't have done any good; he doesn't think of me like that."

Like a ghost, the emissary floats forward through the dank rot, his dark brothers falling back at the sight of arcane energy crackling around his long, skeleton-like fingers. Without one of the tainted among them, the group of warm-skins is harder to track than the Grey Wardens who are usually the only ones to venture this deep, but at the same time it has made them easier to kill, as they have no prior warning of their approach. But now the last of the warm-skins are trapped, fodder for the gift they have so thoughtfully brought into the darkspawns' domain. Were he capable of such a thing, the emissary would be smiling, though the warm bloods would no doubt be hard pressed to say how his normal facial expression differs all that much from a skeleton's full-toothed grin. Such creatures; truly, no place in the deep is safe from the taint after this many thousand years. Easily, the door is smashed and brought down, the hurlocks pouring through the opening into the room beyond. Caught unprepared, trapped, and sleeping, the warm-skins are easily overwhelmed, dwarf and elf slaughtered within seconds, man injured, but alive, woman unscathed; she is a prize indeed, the emissary realizes as she tries to form a fireball to throw at him with her depleted mana.

With a guttural growl, he flings himself at her, tearing her clothes with his claws while the grunts force her mouth open to vomit their tainted blood down her throat. She tries to pull away, to struggle, but the holds of the darkspawn are strong, their drive ancient and primal: the species must survive. Naked and smeared with grime, she is forced to the ground, crying out as a rotting, pulsating rod of flesh, hard and unyielding as the rock she lays on, is forced into her body. Grunting, the emissary sets a harsh pace, each thrust wrenching screams from her throat even as it tears at her young body, unused to the violence of such a mating. Blood stains her thighs, mixing with his corrupted seed as he releases it into her womb, stroking the tear-streaked face with his claws. "Mother," the word echoes in the chamber despite her sobs, carrying with it the truth that the next generation to seek out an Archdemon is already forming inside her body.

"Ebony!" her brother screams as the hurlocks push for their turns with her, but the cry is cut short as he is torn limb from limb, blood caught in bowls for her nourishment when she is heavy with young. By that time, she will not even care that she feasts on her own kin.

* * *

Soaked with sweat and breathing heavily, Anders bolts upright on his narrow, hard cot, threadbare blankets pooling around his waist as he jerks his gaze from side to side, making certain everything is as it was when he fell asleep, that he is still at home with the sound of waves breaking beyond the walls, not buried alive in the dank stench he remembers so well, with the warm skin of a bleeding woman trapped beneath his own cold, corrupted flesh. All is well within the dirty hovel he calls a clinic, but his heart refuses to slow its frenetic pace, the ice-cold sweat on his bare chest refusing to evaporate in the pre-dawn chill.  _Only a dream, only a dream, only a dream_ … Over and over he reminds himself this is reality, that the images seared into his mind are only the twisted illusions of the Fade. He is a man, not a darkspawn, and never would he allow harm to come to an innocent by his own hands. But such things are difficult to remember through the spikes of adrenaline shooting through his blood… or his painful arousal from the thought of Hawke spread open beneath him, an unwilling sacrifice to lust.

Over a month has passed since the night he nearly murdered her on the small beach under the harvest moon, over a month since he last set foot in the Hanged Man when there is any chance that Hawke may be there. Only necessary words pass between them now: her asking if he will come on her latest adventure, if he needs anything for the clinic, him saying that he is busy, that Lirene will get him anything he needs. He does not touch her, does not offer friendship or conversation when they happen to meet by chance, but when he is alone he still smells the scent of her hair, soft and floral, mixing with the salty tang of the cold night air off the ocean, still feels the light press of her body against his through the weight of his heavy coat. Why should he be surprised his dreams of being buried to the hilt in one of his many lovers from the Circle should now change to dreams of her, and beyond that, the taint in his blood and the knowledge she must soon leave for the Deep Roads adding the disgusting idea of himself as an emissary debauching Hawke while his fellow darkspawn await their own turns? But he knows the answer to that question as well.

It is not surprise that sets his blood humming with both anger and desire, it is the knowledge that his dream can be more than dream, may just be a vision of the future.  _Damn, I wish Blondie was here._ Without him, none of Hawke's companions will know when the tainted creatures stalk them, know to, at best, protect her with all their strength until they reach the surface again or, at worst, kill her before nightmares become reality.

_Promise me something, Anders? If there ever comes a time when you're with a woman and the darkspawn try to take her - me, Sigrun, another Warden, anyone - swear, you'll kill me, or them, before there's even a chance of a new broodmother._

_I swear_

There are times in the dark of night, when he aches for release, burns with a agony for the touch of a hand not his own, that he curses the fact he is no longer selfish enough to seek out a quick, mindless tumble with some faceless girl he will never think on again except to admire his own performance, but now, for once, he thanks the Maker for this new lack of selfishness, knowing that it is easier to blame Justice's presence in his soul forcing him to keep his oath than admit the truth. To admit that he will speak to Hawke in the light of day, ask her forgiveness for his mulishness and irascibility since they have met, not because he wishes to protect her out of any obligation to the cousin she has never met but sees in the mirror every day, but because the thought of her being touched by another creature stirs near enough anger to cause the spirit to surface.

Laying back down, he rolls to face the wall, hand slipping past the drawstring of his pants to stroke against the hardened length of his need. Squeezing his eyes closed, he sees her, not as she was in the dream, bloody and struggling to escape him, but flushed and clean, amethyst gaze fixed on him in love as she moves against him, welcoming his every movement, begging him to take her, to make her his. Faster and brighter the images come, matching the speed of his caressing hand, images of her arching against him, head thrown back with breathless pleasure in the heat of their shared passion. With a moan, he spills his seed into the palm of his hand, biting down on the dirty cover of his pillow to try to silence the name on his tongue, to keep it from passing his lips, but still it wrenches from him in that last moment of release when he will do anything for the visions in his head to be true.

"Ebony," he cries out between gritted teeth, the word sliding across the feather shafts he can taste in his mouth. "Oh, Maker, Ebony…"

* * *

_As they took your soul away  
The night turned into the day  
Blinded by your rays of life  
Give us the strength we needed_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Standard "I don't own anything, including my own mind. I have no idea where this stuff comes from sometimes" disclaimer. Lyrics from "Dark Wings" by Within Temptation. Thanks to my lil sis Amanda Kitswell for betaing this not once, but twice, as it took me over a month to write the monstrosity that is this chapter. And no, she didn't read the darkspawn rape scene twice. Once was enough. (I don't blame her, the nightmare I had which inspired this chapter will not be forgotten soon, either.)


	10. Chapter Nine: Memory

_When the moon on a cloud cast night  
Hung above the tree tops' height  
You sang me of some distant past  
That made my heart beat strong and fast  
Now I know I'm home at last_

* * *

Singing softly to myself I dunk the brush back into my bucket of water, tapping the wooden handle against the rim before taking it in both hands to scrub at the rough, uneven floor of Gamlen's hovel, doing my best to keep the strokes in an even time with the rhythm of the song. It's an old one, how old I have no idea, but I can remember hearing it in Papa's husky tones as a child, his voice soft and comforting as he tried to soothe one of the twins to sleep during some babyhood illness. He sang it to Mother as well, but those were times I wasn't supposed to hear, when they had gone off into a field or wood, dependent on which hamlet we were living in, for a moment alone, just the two of them, away from the bustle of the household. My own nature leads me into solitude often enough, though that solitude is something hard to scratch out in this constant confusion that is Kirkwall. The small cove on the Wounded Coast, once my refuge, is now something I can only think of with bitter confusion; I am not the woman I once was, but what exactly changed in me that night, I am uncertain.

Anders avoids me now; he says he is busy, but I know he is no busier than before, as some of those who once went to his clinic now come to me for simple remedies, not wishing to bother The Healer with their lowly maladies when so many others are in even more desperate straights. And to think, so many Marchers say we Fereldens have no honor. With a sigh, I go back to my scrubbing, pushing around dirty water on a dirty floor, ignoring the ache in my knees as I inch along, singing to myself again.

_You offered me an eagle's wing  
That to the sun I might soar and sing  
And if I heard the owl's cry  
Into the forest I would fly  
And in its darkness find you by._

"I think the only way you're going to get that floor truly clean is to take a fireball to it." My scrub brush clatters on the floor as I jump, startled, though whether the start is more from the voice intruding on my lonesome task, or the person using the voice is up to debate.

"Maker, Anders, you gave me a fright!" I protest, wiping my dusty pants off as I stand. My hair is a mess, tucked half under a kerchief much the way Isabela wears hers, though I doubt it's anywhere near as flattering on me. Touching it self-consciously, I push a loose black curl under the edge, wishing I had known he was coming so I might look half-way presentable, instead of like a drudge left alone to her work as the more senior servants amuse themselves.

"Sorry; no one answered my knock and the latch was out and I could hear you singing, so I thought…" His feathered shoulders ruffle with a shrug, soft gold eyes sweeping over our cramped, filthy house. "This is your home?"

"My uncle's," I correct. Gamlen's hovel will never be a home to me; home implies love and warmth, rather than the reek of cold, anger and fear that permeates every breath I take within these walls. "He's gone to the brothel with Carver. Neither of them realizes I know that, of course, but I'm not the silly little thing Gamlen takes me for. And speaking of people thinking I'm silly, Serrah Healer, you didn't answer my question. Is everything alright?"

To my surprise, he cuts his eyes to the side, looking away from me, instead fixing on the old black leather grimoire lying on my bed where I had placed it to keep it out of the wet from my scrubbing. "Everything is fine." He hesitates, still staring at the grimoire, so I cross to my cot and gather it against my chest before I fold myself into a cross-legged position at the head, gesturing for my fellow mage to sit at the foot. "Dig yourself up an old Tevinter tome in the market?"

My hands smooth the worn leather, enjoying the soft, velvety feel of it. "We brought it with us from Ferelden." One of Anders' eyebrows, surprisingly dark against his dirty-gold hair and bronze eyes, quirks into a question, head tilted to the side like a curious pup.

"Why did you drag a heavy book like that along with you during a Blight?" The question stings down deep, in the part of my heart that has always been, and will always be, for Bethany, and I wonder for a moment if my taking the time to retrieve this from its secret place had been the cause of my beloved sister's death. It had taken me all of a moment to find it, but perhaps that moment was the moment that would have taken us past the ogre, past the darkspawn horde, safely to Gwaren and then here without death and without interference from the Witch of the Wilds to whom I still owe a debt. "Hawke?" his voice drags me back from the past, and I look into the worried gaze, shaking away my thoughts before I place the book on the bed between us.

"It was my father's, one of the few things he had from his time before he met our mother; only an old grimoire half written in Arcanum and a pair of boots." I lift my feet to show them, turning my leg to the side to show their wear, make it obvious they were made for a much larger man and re-stitched to fit me.

He watches my leg for a moment, his eyes focused with a scrutiny that makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable until they dart back to my face. "What was your father like?"

"A good man, patient." I reply with a smile, thinking back half a decade, to the long days working in the fields to the beat of his singing, the evenings working within the house, laughter and warmth and  _home_. "He never yelled, but you knew when he was disappointed. I suppose some would say he was strict, but he never asked anything of us that he would not ask of himself, nor ask something he knew we could not do. He pushed Beth and I do be the best, most controlled mages we could be, and pushed Carver to learn the blade, to have something that was his alone. He was no one to say 'I love you', but at the same time none of us ever doubted that. I only remember him actually saying it to me once… when he died." It hits me like another blow; thinking of Papa always makes me think of how he died, makes me know it was all my fault. Papa wanted me to be the best mage I could be, but when it really mattered, I always failed.

A hand closed on mine, and I looked back into Anders' soft gaze, our eyes meeting in understanding. I've spoken of this pain to him before, in my refuge along the Wounded Coast. "You know, you're the only person I've met with a mage parent she actually remembers. At the Circle, any accidental babies are taken away before the mother even sees them."

"That's horrible." My eyes close and I try to imagine that, carrying a child, holding it under my heart for nearly a year, knowing it as part of myself, an echo of my soul – and then being helpless as that part of my soul is removed, forever. "I think it would drive me mad to have that happen."

"Well, then we'll just have to make certain that the Templars never touch you."

"It sounds like a plan." It feels so good to laugh, to smile. I think I've done more of both around Anders in the few months we've know each other than I have in the years since Papa died. Laughter still dancing on my lips, I give his hand a gentle squeeze. "I'm glad we're talking again."

"I'm still not any good for you." He warns me solemnly, giving my hand a return squeeze. "But I promise I'll be at your side. I am yours, for as long as you need me."

* * *

_And so our love's not a simple thing  
_ _Nor our truths unwavering  
_ _But like the moon's pull on the tide  
_ _Our fingers touch, our hearts collide  
_ _I'll be a moonsbreath by your side._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Lyrics from "Samain Night" by Loreena McKennitt. Hi did you all miss me? Thirteen months, thirteen bloody months I've had writer's block on this story. I would like to thank everyone who's been so supportive through all of that, especially my sister, Amanda Kitswell, and Molly Moon to whom this chapter is dedicated for getting me constantly thinking about how to move the story along. Special shout out! to my buddy Cam who beta'd for me since Manda-mia's busy with work right now. If anything in here is screwed up, it's his fault.


End file.
